Songs To Sing- John Frusciante

9

July 23, 1991

Pencey

White.

The entire fucking room was white.

I squinted, wanting to raise my hand to my eyes, but so sore that they would barely move. My eyes shifted to the right, seeing the familiar outline sitting beside me. "Hi, sweetheart."

My vision came into focus just in time to see his face light up with delight. "Oh, God, you scared me. Don't scare me like that."

"What, me nearly dying, or waking up?"

"Both." He hit the call button beside my bed, taking my hand in his. "If we're being honest, the doctors told me you wouldn't wake up for another day, you took that much."

Another day?  "How long was I..."

"Just a day."

I smiled weakly. "Well, I'm alive, John. Be my first kiss." He smiled, pushing himself out of his chair to plant his lips on mine softly, a hand coming up by my chin.

"I wouldn't have anyone else be the first kiss of your rebirth, baby."

Just as he broke away, a nurse came in, sighing. "Good. We didn't think you'd come out of it this fast."

"I was just told, yeah."

She smiled softly, clipboard gripped tightly with her pink nails. "So, I'm supposing the next thing you'll ask is when you can go home?"

I nodded with what strength I had. "That, and where I am at the moment."

"You're in Los Angeles, on July 22, 1991. If all goes well with your tests and a doctor is okay with it, you will hopefully be home by tomorrow evening."

I hummed quietly. "Thank you."

"Right. You should have a doctor in her in the next, oh, 10 minutes?" She smiled again, turning on her heel and leaving.

I slowly tilted my head to John. "Did you guys play last night? Are you playing tonight?"

"Are you kidding?" He scoffed. "Their bass player almost fucking died, of course they didn't play. We didn't either. Whole thing got gutted. I think they scrapped until the 26th."

I felt the regret settle in my stomach. "I'm sorry. I tried to push it, hoping the high would last longer. I should have been more careful." He was silent, and so was I. "You know, I think I might want to get clean."

"Really?"

"I don't exactly like how dying feels, John. It's something I'd like to avoid, at least for a bit."

"Are you going to go to rehab?"

"I don't think so, not unless they make me, which I doubt. I haven't been using that long, there's really no reason for them to. I can do it on my own."

He hummed next. "Well, not on your own. I'll be there."

"Right." I stayed silent. Before my brain could filter it, I began speaking. "Come live with me."

"Pencey?"

"I... Yeah. Come live with me. I live in a big enough apartment for the two of us, and you did say yourself that you live in a dump."

"I said that?"

I giggled slightly. "Yes. Y'know, I do remember the conversations we have when we were high. I'm not a total zombie."

"I guess I can't say the same."

Silence again. "And John, stop fooling me. You're in love with me. You knew this was going to happen anyways. And if I've realized anything in the short time I've been conscious again, it's that I'm probably not going to live forever. So fuck it. Move in with me. We can get you settled in while we play the Cali shows. Maybe we'll get a house one day."

"A house?"

"Unless you never want to pay a mortgage. I can't say I would feel bad missing out on that."

"I think I would suffer through that boring ass paperwork for you. Probably only you, though."

***

I spent the entire car ride thinking about how I just wish I had something on me, something to shoot up in the stall of the rest stop bathroom. It felt like there was an itch on some part of my body I just couldn't get. And I knew as soon as I would get back to the apartment, while John was out packing his things, I would get violently ill. I would feel like I was dying again, no doubt.

And I was right.

As soon as I was through the door of my apartment and John had the spare keys, I was in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, feeling my guts coming out. And I stayed there, sat on the floor shivering until he came back, wrestling with two bags. A few boxes sat in the hallway from what I could see from my limited position, and he groaned as he pulled the bag inside. "Where do you want these?" He called into the apartment.

I cleared my throat, feeling the bile threaten to come up. "Living ro-" And it did indeed come up.

I listened to him scramble to put his bags down, push the rest into the entryway, and then he stumbled into the bathroom, the baggy flannel he'd been wearing draped over my shoulders. "Hi, baby."

"Don't baby me, John. I feel like I'm dying."

"Again."

"Exactly. Again."

He began rubbing circles into the small of my back, letting me ease into his touch. "You want me to stay with you in here?"
"I know you get queasy, no. Go unpack."

"I'll check on you."

"Yeah, just make sure I didn't, like, throw up my lung into the toilet. That would be unfortunate."

He grinned down at me as he stood up. "You know, for someone who technically medically died for 47 seconds 3 days ago, you have a wicked sense of humor."

"Satan taught me everything I know while I was visiting."